Chapter 5 #2
There was no haste in his movement, no attempt at effect. He stepped forward with measured dignity, and when he reached the front of the church, paused only long enough to collect himself. Then, in a clear, well-supported baritone, he began—
Adeste, fideles,
Laeti triumphantes…
The Latin flowed with an ease that bespoke long familiarity rather than display.
His voice was neither ostentatious nor restrained to timidity; it filled the church naturally, carrying warmth without excess, devotion without affectation.
The congregation listened in a stillness broken only by the faint creak of pews and the soft intake of breath from more than one astonished parishioner.
Mrs. Bennet sat quite motionless, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes shining with a pride so intense that it bordered upon reverence.
Mary leaned forward, wholly absorbed, her expression one of solemn rapture.
Kitty stared, wide-eyed and unblinking; Lydia forgot herself entirely and only remembered to sit still when Jane laid a gentle hand upon her arm.
Even Mr. Bennet, who was not easily moved by public performances, felt something within him yield—not to admiration alone, but to a deeper satisfaction that this young man, once so uncertain in his prospects, should now stand so quietly assured of his place.
Yet Elizabeth, attentive as ever to the subtler movements of feeling, perceived something more.
William did not sing to the congregation.
His gaze, though modestly lowered, returned again and again to one place only: the second row of pews, where Miss Charlotte Lucas sat beside her mother.
He did not look at her openly; there was no impropriety, no presumption.
And yet—his voice softened there, warmed, as though the meaning of the words had found a particular home.
Venite adoremus…
Charlotte listened with composed attention, her hands folded, her expression serene. If she felt herself singled out, she gave no sign of it beyond a faint color rising in her cheeks, and a gentleness in her smile that deepened as the hymn drew to its close.
When the final note faded and William bowed his head, a hush lingered—one of those rare silences that speaks more eloquently than applause.
The vicar nodded with undisguised approval; the congregation stirred at last, and a low murmur of admiration passed among them, restrained only by the decorum of the place.
As William Collins returned quietly to his seat, Elizabeth leaned toward Jane and whispered, with a smile that was both knowing and amused—
“He sings remarkably well.”
Jane, whose own thoughts were kinder and less analytical, smiled in return. “He does,” she agreed softly.
Elizabeth glanced once more toward Charlotte Lucas, who sat with her eyes lowered now, her expression thoughtful, almost tender.
“Yes,” Elizabeth added, under her breath. “And not for everyone.”
When the service concluded and the congregation began to disperse, Sir William Lucas—whose sociable instincts were never long restrained by solemnity—lost no time in expressing his curiosity. Catching sight of Mr. Bennet, he advanced with cordial animation.
“My dear Mr. Bennet! A most edifying service—most edifying indeed! And your young relation—quite a sensation, sir, quite a sensation. I should be vastly obliged if you would allow me the honor of making his acquaintance.”
Amused but obliging, Mr. Bennet turned at once. “With pleasure. Cousin William—permit me to present Sir William Lucas.”
Introductions followed in proper order: to Lady Lucas, gracious and attentive; to Miss Charlotte, who met William’s bow with composed civility; and to Miss Maria, whose curiosity was less carefully concealed.
Charlotte appeared about to speak—perhaps to offer a word of thanks, perhaps something quieter and more personal—but at that moment the church bells burst forth overhead, pealing with jubilant insistence and filling the porch with sound.
She smiled instead, inclining her head slightly. “The bells—” she began, and stopped.
“Bellflowers,” murmured William Collins softly, half smiling at the memory of a nosegay once given and accepted.
Charlotte’s answering smile—gentle, luminous, celestial, and entirely her own—needed no words at all.
***
The Christmas dinner at Longbourn glowed with the warmth of the blessed season, the dining room transformed into a haven of festive cheer despite the biting cold outside.
Branches of holly and ivy draped the mantelpiece, their red berries catching the flicker of the Yule log crackling in the hearth, while clusters of mistletoe hung mischievously from the beams—though Mrs. Bennet had sternly warned her younger daughters against any undue frivolity beneath them.
The table itself was a triumph: laden with a steaming roast goose at its center, surrounded by dishes of buttered carrots, roasted parsnips, a plum pudding waiting to be flambéed, and mince pies still warm from the kitchen.
Candles in silver holders cast a golden light over the best china and the polished silver, and the air was rich with the scents of cinnamon, cloves, and evergreen.
Mrs. Bennet surveyed it all with triumphant satisfaction, her nerves soothed—for once—by the knowledge that this was no ordinary meal. ‘A guest of such promise at our table on Christmas Day itself! What could be more proper?’
William Collins, the young Oxford scholar—an unexpected holiday visitor, had one asked any member of the Bennet family the previous Christmas—had been seated with deliberate care at Mr. Bennet’s right hand, a position at once honorable and convenient, allowing Mrs. Bennet, placed opposite, to draw him into conversation whenever she pleased.
Mr. Bennet himself, presiding at the head of the table, observed this arrangement with his customary dry amusement, well aware of the calculations that had produced it.
Jane and Elizabeth were seated beyond him, attentive and composed, while on the opposite side Mary maintained her air of earnest propriety, and Kitty, squeezed beside Lydia, was already dissolving into suppressed laughter at some private absurdity whispered between them.
The family had gathered with the easy chaos of the holidays: Lydia and Kitty arriving late from admiring the frost patterns on the windows, Mary solemnly arranging her napkin as if it were a moral exercise, and Elizabeth exchanging quiet smiles with Jane over their mother’s barely contained excitement.
William bore the attention with quiet composure, his manners neither forward nor retreating. He carved modestly at his goose, praising the gravy with genuine appreciation, which earned an approving nod from Mr. Bennet.
After the initial toasts—with Mr. Bennet raising his glass to “peace on earth, and tolerable roads”—and remarks on the morning’s crisp walk to church, Mrs. Bennet steered the conversation toward her favorite ground.
“It is such a satisfaction,” she declared, beaming at Mr. Collins, “to have a young man of real application at our Christmas table. Education, I always say, is the foundation of everything worthwhile—and when joined with good principles and a respectable situation—well! One may hope for the very best. I am sure your dear mother, God rest her, would be delighted to see you so creditably begin to settle in life.”
William inclined his head graciously, a faint flush touching his cheeks. “You are too kind, madam. I hope never to forget the sacrifices made on my behalf, nor the duty I owe to those who supported my beginnings.”
“And Oxford!” Mrs. Bennet pressed on, her voice rising with enthusiasm. “Such a place of distinction. Since your arrival, Mr. Collins, it is all the parish speaks of. St. Edmund Hall, no less! Half the congregation knows it already, and the other half will before Twelfth Night, mark my words.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled over his wineglass. “Fame, my dear, travels faster than post-horses—especially when assisted by eager tongues.”
Lydia snorted into her napkin, earning a sharp glance from her mother, while Kitty hardly stifled a giggle.
Seizing the pause with solemn gravity, Mary cleared her throat. “Regular study is indeed a great advantage. The discipline of the mind, like that of the body, refines the understanding and strengthens moral character. The classics, properly pursued, are invaluable in this regard.”
William turned to her with respectful attention. “I have found it so, Miss Mary. What began as labor has, through perseverance, become a source of order—and order lightens every burden.”
Elizabeth, who had been watching him with lively curiosity, could not resist. “You speak as if you have already unlocked the secret of true contentment, Mr. Collins.”
He paused, considering her words with earnest reflection. “Not contentment entirely, Miss Bennet—only that a clear sense of purpose makes even uncertainty bearable.”
Jane smiled softly, her gentle eyes warm with approval. She thought how sincerely spoken the words were, and how little they sought admiration.
Kitty, wide-eyed and attentive, nodded as if she understood every word, though Elizabeth suspected otherwise.
Lydia, however, could restrain herself no longer. “I should like to hear of something far more diverting than books,” she declared. “I want to know when I shall be allowed to go to a real ball.”
Kitty drew herself up with the air of superior wisdom natural to one a year older. “You cannot go to balls yet, Lydia. Mama says young ladies must be of a proper age—and you are certainly not.”
“And you are scarcely so very much older!” Lydia retorted, with spirited indignation.